In his dying second
by ej'snwsm
Summary: While Sam is losing himself on the battlefield, other things are being lost and found. Warning: Major character death. Destiel.


Authors Note:  
I've been struggling with writer's block ever since I finished my last story. This is the first thing that I have been inspired to write, so, despite the lack of anything resembling happiness in it, I decided that I might as well share it.  
It does contain the death of characters that I would very much like to remain alive for the rest of eternity, so I'm not sure where it came from.  
Just a warning, you know? So yeah, Major Character Death.

(...)

(...)

It was hard to know if they were winning or losing. Lately there didn't seem to be much use in distinguishing the two. They always lost far too much when they won.  
Sam tried to find himself in the heat of battle. He knew what he was supposed to do. What everyone expected him to do. Keep fighting. Never stop, never tire, never fall.  
But he was lost. The faces around him were all blurring into one. He didn't know who was an enemy, or who was a friend. It didn't seem to matter anymore. He couldn't even remember what enemy they were supposed to be up against.  
Without thinking he sidestepped a blow. He had been too distracted to know where it had come from. There was no way he could know who was attacking him, or from what direction. Danger was on all sides, all around him. He struggled to remember a time when it had been different. When he hadn't had to put up with constant fear and worry. When people he loved hadn't been dying all around him.  
He'd lost track of everything in the battle that swirled around him. He didn't know where he'd started fighting. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a familiar face. He'd lost Dean. Somewhere in the onslaught of tangled limbs and gore, he'd lost his brother.  
The sounds of battle were ringing in his ears, clanging around him, but he barely heard any of it. He tried to find strength in it. It meant that things weren't over yet. They were still fighting. The cacophony of battle suggested that they were still far from losing. But that thought just made him feel exhausted.  
Sam was fighting blindly, relying on his instincts to get him through the next second. There was something about this fight. He'd been in the thick of it countless times before. He'd been here, right where he was now, too many times to count. But this time it was different. Sam couldn't shake off the distinct feeling that he had lost more than just himself in this fight. More and more, every second, something was flying further out of his grasp, and he couldn't shake it off like he had so many times before.  
He'd been raised a soldier, raised in preparation for this moment, only to find that he couldn't cope. Only to find that there was a limit to the death and destruction he could take.  
Sam was ashamed. He was being weak. He was letting everyone down. He was supposed to know what he was doing. He was supposed to make a difference. He couldn't tell if he had done that, or if his efforts were, in reality, ineffective.  
It all just felt hopeless.

(...)

Sam wasn't aware of that exact point where suddenly the battle swung in their favour. He didn't notice the ranks of their enemies growing thinner on the other end of his gun. He didn't realise it was over until the last foe had vanished. Until he had to pry his numb fingers from around the trigger.  
But it was over.  
And he was more lost than ever. The innocent block had turned into a battlefield he didn't recognise. He didn't remember how he had gotten there.  
Slowly some feeling of normality returned to him. At least, as normal as he could feel, which had never been very much at all. The rest of the world rushed in at him. There was still so much more they would have to do before this could really be over. He had to find Dean.  
He walked among people he thought he knew. Some of them said things to him, some looked as though they didn't even see him. The grey pavement was littered with bodies. They wouldn't be there for much longer. Sam couldn't bring himself to look away.

(...)

There was nobody standing by the bodies. Sam didn't wonder why. There was no one left for them anymore. Everyone who had loved them was dead.  
It felt anything but real.  
Sam had found Dean.  
His knees suddenly gave out, and he sunk spraddle-legged to the dirty ground. His heart beat loudly, but nothing else.  
He'd watched his brother die so many times that somewhere down the line it had stopped meaning anything. He felt a wave of repulsion and guilt hit him at that thought. Every time the tables had been turned, when it had been him dying, it had mattered to Dean.  
Sam had just come to believe that there would always be a next time.  
Blood gleamed brightly from the still growing stain on Dean's shirt. It slithered to pool around him on the hard pavement. He lay awkwardly on his back, one leg twisted horribly beneath the other.  
One of this hands was still clenched tightly around his gun, finger ready at the trigger.  
Castiel lay next to him. His tie was askew, his clothes messed up. A grotesque wound had been twisted into the middle of his chest. He was lying on his side, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. For meters behind him, ash littered the ground, spreading out in the shape of two magnificent wings. Ash fluttered through the air above the two bodies, too, swirling around Sam as he tried to take it all in. The fallen angel had not been human enough to die a human's death.  
The fingers of Dean's free hand were entwined with Castiel's. Both their eyes were open, heads turned to look at each other. Despite the pain both had clearly been in, and the clutter of the city block, both wore expressions of utter tranquillity. They were lying atop piles of grey trash, covered in the sludge of rain, blood and dirt. But Dean looked as though he had never been more peaceful than in that second. His second of dying.  
Castiel's lips were twisted into a small smile. One of the few Sam had ever seen there.  
Their gazes were slowly growing glassy, their faces pale. They were both gone, and Sam knew that neither would be coming back this time.  
Sam took a deep breath and struggled to his feet. He turned away from the hunter and the angel. Staring had felt too much like intruding on a deeply intimate moment.  
Sam forced himself to walk away.  
While Sam had been losing himself on the battlefield, they had found each other. After years of misunderstanding and misinterpretation. Years of endless denial and empty womanising. For the first and last time on this earth, they had found each other.


End file.
